A monarch butterfly encounters many obstacles—pollution, cars, and predatory birds—on her migration route Silver buildings gleamed in the distance. They rose high into the sky, blocking the view of it. Shorter buildings puffed out too much smoke, making it impossible for birds to fly over the area. Cars honked almost every second of the day, filling the city with sounds of car horns. Around the perimeter of the city was a row of trees too perfect to be anywhere near the new city. The sun looked like it was ready to cough out its sunlight through the smoke in the sky. A small monarch looked out at the new city, afraid of the new obstacles in her way. She had not seen this city before and didn’t like how it was right in her migration path. No other monarchs had made it this far yet, and she had been told by a ladybug that the only ones who had tried had gone in groups and come back with broken wings or had lost almost everyone in their group. This information scared the monarch, but she was determined to migrate to Mexico, only led by her instinctive compass and the warmth coming from the south. The trees surrounding the perimeter of the city look safest at the moment for the monarch, so she makes her way over. From far away, there seem to be no animals perched in the tree. That’s strange, the monarch thinks. A tree like this is perfect for most animals who dwell near the city. She lands on one of these trees and almost passes out from a strong smell that burns her small trachea. Now she understands clearly why not one creature dares use this tree. It is covered in a pesticide meant to repel only a few select insects. Humans thought they were warding off termites. They had really just made this tree uninhabitable for all creatures. The monarch coughs and glides down to the smooth marble walkway. Her small feet slip on the floor because there’s no friction on the walkway. To get around, she must use her wings. The monarch is in front of the first house and stops to take in the view. She has never seen a place so clean, so organized. The house is modern, with three levels and a flat roof. The yard is filled with completely fake plants, with the exception of one small tree covered in pesticide. Children are playing inside, and they appear to be alone. Then there is a light visible from one of the rooms. The monarch finds herself inching toward the light, entranced by the amazing creations of humanity. Then a small child runs up to the window, staring down at the monarch. He yells something to someone and disappears. The monarch flutters to an upper room and can’t see anyone anymore. She hears a slight sliding sound, like wood against marble. Four children burst out of the door, yelling into the street that there is a butterfly. The monarch disappears around the next corner, knowing that staying in that area would only mean death or a short life in a glass jar. The buildings are beginning to get shorter. There is no longer a chemical scent in the air. Here, it smells musty, and slightly of rotten things. Everything is covered in a thick layer of multicolored grime. A few starlings are poking at trash near a fast food restaurant. Not that many people are in sight. The walkway has also turned into gritty concrete, and the monarch guesses that this is part of a cheaper side of the city. All sorts of bad things happen in places like this. She doesn’t want to stay long but wants to visit the only animal she has seen since she started her journey through the city. The monarch swoops down to the starlings, hoping to know what happened to the monarchs who did not come back from their migration. She also wants someone to talk to. When she lands in the middle of a group of starlings, all of them turn to look at her. “What is a monarch doin’ around here?” The monarch is startled, and turns around quickly to see a big starling looking down at her. He cocks his head and puts his face very close to hers. “I’m migrating through the city,” she answers confidently. “Well, monarch, I wouldn’t keep on goin’. Most of your friends died when they got to that main road,” he said with a strange accent. The bird sounded British but the way that he slurred his words slightly led the monarch to believe he was from the city. “Goodbye, bird,” the monarch said as she began to flutter off. They looked uninterested in her. The bird said nothing and went back to picking at trash. * * * The majority of her journey along the walkway had been uneventful, with only the occasional distraction or stomping feet to interrupt the journey. It was noon now, and what would have been a relaxing evening of cricket chirps is now the loud honk of cars not that far away. As the walkway continues, the honks get louder. Everything seems to be tainted with car oil, and the stink is beginning to make the monarch lightheaded. The monarch is coming near to the main road, which sits right at the edge of the city. It stretches on for miles, reaching seven main cities along the way. The road is four lanes wide. Each lane is large enough to fit an 18-wheel truck comfortably. She shudders, afraid that one car going too fast could be the end of her dream to be the first monarch to reach Mexico. The monarch reaches the edge of the road, and all of the determination drains out of her as fast as water going down a drain. She shudders, afraid that one car going
November 2019
The Cedar Bracelet
A girl needs the courage to face a new home and a new school all the way across the country I only felt like myself when I was listening to stories. It was no surprise, really. Words were my sanctuary. I had never been good at making real friends, but those in books had always welcomed me with open arms. I had lived in the same town my whole life, and the friend I had had since preschool had moved away the previous summer. We hadn’t seen each other since. Books were different. They never moved away. They always stood beside me. My cousin was my only real friend. She was six years older than I was, the kind of person to whom words come as easily as breath. She always told me stories. We used to sit outside on the porch, which wrapped around the back of my house, in the sky-blue hammock that hung between two of the posts. When I was smaller and too young to get into it on my own, my cousin would lift me onto it, nearly tossing me off again when she got on herself, causing the hammock to sway back and forth like a ship on a stormy sea. We sometimes took ice-cream sandwiches outside, or bags of pretzels, or carrot sticks, and we’d munch on them and watch the butterflies and bees dart among the brightly colored flowers of the garden. On windy days, we’d bring a kite and watch the breeze play with the kite tails as it dipped and dived through the air. She used to tell me stories: fantastical tales of other worlds which could only be reached through mirrors, of lands of eternal snow and ice and sun. She would describe the blaze of a sunset over a restless sea and the patterns of the stars seen from the highest tower of a castle perched on the tip of the world. Sometimes, she read to me from books with bright illustrations painted on the covers. But usually, she would tell stories that didn’t come from a book. These were the ones that spun images of fantasy in my mind—of a princess in an azure gown with a bronze-plumed bird perched on her hand, or a forest-green dragon reclining on a vast horde of treasure, or a wizard in starry robes watching a phoenix circle in the sky. There was a land among the clouds where only fairies lived, one story began. An elven girl once floated on a raft down a river of light that ended in the stars, went another. The daughter of the king did not plan on being trapped in the tower for long, began a third. These days were perfect. They were the times I savored, the moments I wished could last forever. But nothing can. It was June. I had turned 12 a few days before. We were moving, my parents said, to the other side of the country. They said I would make new friends, that our new home would be even better than where we lived now. But my cousin was different. I knew no friend could ever replace her. * * * We sat in the hammock as we had so many times, with the wind swaying us back and forth and sunlight playing on butterfly wings as they fluttered through the flowers. My cousin told me that she’d be going to college soon. She said she’d write. I knew she would. But no words could change the miles that would stretch between us, a void wider than the sea. She seemed to sense my thoughts, because she said, “Penelope, have I ever told you about the girl who went on a quest to find a feather but found something much more important?” I shook my head. “No? Well, in a far-off land where trees speak in the language of wind, where magic is more natural than earth and sea and sky, there was an elven girl with moon-black hair who was afraid of change, of the shifting future and the uncertainty of what would come next. There was loneliness and fear in that world as much as in this one, and for her, she had a name to lay upon it. For all the elves go on a quest when they turn 13, and she knew hers would change her life forever. “Her 13th birthday dawned on a sunny day, with bluebirds and orioles singing sweetly in the trees. And she learned her quest would be to find the silver feather that the phoenix Avis left when she was reborn from fire on the top of Blue Mountain, whose cliffs reared high above the clouds. “The elven girl embarked on her journey, as tradition decreed. She scaled Blue Mountain by way of a forgotten road. She faced ancient monsters, outwitted cruel thieves, and went long days without food or drink. After the sun had risen and set more times than she could count, she reached the fabled place. She looked high and low, but she found no silver feather, nor any sign that it had ever been. All there was, was a bracelet made of cedar beads, one of which was shaped in the form of a dragon. She took it back with her, but she knew she had failed. “When she returned home, ashamed and uncertain, she was greeted by the sage of her village. The girl told him of her failure, expecting to be rebuked or worse, but the old man simply smiled. “‘Why do you cry, child?’ he asked, and to the elven girl’s dismay, she realized tears were indeed running down her cheeks. She bit her lip and tried to keep her voice from trembling. “‘Because I have failed my family.’ “The sage laughed, a low, husky sound, like the rustle of dry rushes on a riverbank. ‘You have found what you needed most,’ he
Dandelions
Acrylics Alicia Xin, 13Scarsdale, NY
